The Dragon's Lair
by InfinityStar
Summary: A late night call puts Goren in a difficult personal situation. BA
1. A Late Night

**A/N: A few of you have expressed concern that I have given up on writing B/A, which I assure you is not the case. So this is for anyone who wants more B/A. This takes place sometime in season 4.  
**

**On a personal note, we just found out that Katie needs more surgery and she may be bipolar (we really need _that_), but Jessie is gradually getting her blood sugar under control. Thank you all for your prayers and positive thoughts for my children.**

* * *

It was well past midnight when Robert Goren entered his apartment and emptied his pockets onto the counter. He rubbed the back of his neck wearily and stretched his back. _What a day_, he mused as he walked to the refrigerator. Taking out a package of ham, a bottle of mustard and a beer, he set them on the counter and took a half loaf of rye bread from the bread box. After fixing his sandwich and putting everything away, he went into the living room and sat on the couch, setting the sandwich and the beer bottle on the coffee table and grabbing the remote.

Before he could turn on the television, his phone rang. He was sorely tempted to ignore it, but when Eames left just after five that afternoon, she seemed out of sorts following a phone call she refused to discuss with him. She could be the one calling him, and hers was not a call he wanted to miss.

Rising, he walked to the counter where his phone continued to ring. Picking it up, he frowned at the unfamiliar number on the caller ID and answered it. "Goren."

"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, sir. My name is Peter Brossard. Do you know a woman named Alexandra Eames?"

His stomach dropped. "Uh, y-yes, I do. Why? Is something wrong?"

"I tend bar at The Dragon's Lair, just off Broadway on 43rd. Ms. Eames has been here since I came on at six, and she...well, I mean I can't, er, I won't let her leave on her own but she refuses to get into the cab I called for her. Since she left her wallet out on the bar, I took it for safekeeping, and I looked in it for someone to call. That's where I found your card. I thought that if you knew her...well, maybe...I hope it's all right that I called you."

Wondering what the hell was going on with his partner, he reassured the bartender. "It's fine. I'm glad you did. I...I'll be there shortly."

The man sounded relieved. "Thank you. I'll try to keep an eye on her for you."

"Thanks." He closed the phone and slipped his things back into his pockets. Placing the sandwich and unopened beer back in the refrigerator, he left the apartment.

* * *

Pete did his best to watch out for the inebriated woman until her friend arrived. He tried to ward off patrons interested in hitting on her, knowing she was in no condition to make any judgment calls. He'd be damned if he was going to read about the discovery of her body in tomorrow's news. He wasn't going to go through _that _again if he could help it.

When he saw the big man step in from the street, he hoped he was the woman's friend. He really didn't like the jerk she was flirting with and he was afraid she was going to leave with him. He watched the big guy search the room and he felt relief when his expression changed after spotting her. It changed again when he saw her laugh and lean into the other guy. With a confident, deliberate stride, he crossed the room toward the bar. _Thank God._

Goren looked at the bartender as he approached, not missing the man's look of relief. He nodded at him before turning his attention to Eames. What the hell was she doing with that slug? Noting the wedding ring that he made no attempt to hide, he recalled that she'd once said that married liars were her special weakness.

Stepping up to her side, he touched her shoulder. She turned on the stool and almost tumbled off it. He caught her, then leaned over to look at her face. She studied him for a moment before recognition set in and her face lit up in a way he had never seen it before. "Bobby! What are you doing here?"

The man on the other side of her leaned against her and said, "Beat it, pal. I saw her first."

Keeping a supporting hand on Eames, Goren straightened to his full height and glared at the man, who was too drunk to recognize the threat Goren posed to him. Not willing to leave Eames sitting there to get involved in a barfight, even one he would easily win, he chose instead to pull out his badge. The man backed off immediately and went in search of other prey.

Goren turned his attention toward the bartender as Eames leaned heavily into him. He kept his arm around her back. "Pete?" he addressed the man behind the bar.

"Detective Goren, I presume."

Goren offered him a small smile. "Thank you for calling me."

"I just wanted to see her get home safely."

Goren looked down at Eames, who was playing with the buttons on his shirt. She managed to get one open and she was working on the next. He looked back at Pete. "I'll take care of her."

"She's been in here a number of times, but she's never gotten like this. Sometimes she meets friends, sometimes she finds a date, but she always leaves after a few drinks."

"Uh, well, thanks for looking out for her."

Pete reached under the bar and passed her wallet to Goren. "I didn't want just anyone to pick this up."

He took the wallet and dropped it into his pocket. "Thanks."

Turning his full attention back to Eames as Pete moved off to take care of a customer, he gently moved her hands from his shirt, now open two more buttons, and said, "Come on, Eames."

He helped her slide off the stool and guided her to the door. He had always thought that he was the one who needed the 'if found please return to...' tag around his neck, not her. He pulled the door open and guided her out into the night.

"Where we goin'?" she asked, her face still glowing as she looked at him.

"I'm taking you home," he answered, careful not to react to her bright, beautiful expression. It wasn't meant for him. She was drunk, after all, and would probably grace anyone with that bright smile.

Her smile turned into a pout. "I don't wanna go home," she protested.

"Okay, fine. You can come with me."

She brightened and repeated, "Where we goin'?"

"To my place."

"Oh, fun! You got beer?"

"Uh, yes..." he answered. _But you're not getting any, not tonight,_ he added in his head.

She seemed happy as he held open the passenger door for her. She turned unsteadily toward him. "I thought we agreed _I _do the drivin'."

"It's my car."

She gave that some thought before she reached out and laid her hand flat against his chest. Distracted, she leaned in closer and fumbled with another button. Pushing his shirt open as far as the remaining buttons would allow, she played with the hair on his chest. He caught his breath and gently removed her hands from inside his shirt. "Get in the car, please."

She freed one hand and reached out to tease his chest hair again. "But it's nice..."

He looked around. "Not here," he pleaded.

Another pout. "Spoil sport."

He helped her into the car and closed the door. "You have no idea," he muttered to himself as he walked around to the driver's side and got in.

As soon as he started the car, she leaned into him and rested her head against his shoulder. She slipped her hand inside his shirt again and he gently removed it. He didn't need that kind of distraction while he was driving. After the third time, she gave up with his shirt and zoomed in on another target. He almost hit a parked car when she rubbed his pants. More firmly, he removed her hand. "I'm driving," he growled, trying to balance his tone so she wouldn't think he was mad. No, he wasn't mad, but he was confused as hell. He wondered if she was always so...frisky when she got this trashed.

When he finally parked down the street from his apartment, he was relieved to have arrived with no major mishaps. Her hands seemed to stray everywhere and he was frustrated from having to force himself to deflect her advances. He got out of the car and sighed heavily as he walked around to open the door for her.

She climbed out of the car with help from him and leaned against him as he guided her around the car, catching her easily when she stumbled on the curb. With another heavy sigh, he steered her across the sidewalk and into his building. He was relieved when he finally got her through the door, into his apartment. She was safe. When she turned toward him again with that beautiful, bright smile, he wondered if _he _was safe. She reached out and began toying with his buttons again. "Eames..." he whispered.

"Shhh," she hushed as she worked on freeing the last few buttons.

He grasped her hands again before she finished. "Go on into the living room and sit down. I'll...I'll get you a cup of coffee and something to eat."

"I thought you had beer."

"I don't think you need any more beer."

"I haven't _had _any beer," she protested.

"Not tonight," he said gently.

She pulled her hands free from his grasp and he expected her to storm off to the living room, but she had a unique ability to catch him off guard at every turn, even when she wasn't on her best game. She reached out and touched his lips with her fingertips, lightly caressing them before following his jaw to his ear. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Recovering slowly, he stepped back, away from her. "Go...go on into the living room, please," he said, hoping he didn't sound as pathetic to her ears as he did to his own.

She touched his lips again, then went into the living room as he asked. He watched her unsteady progress across the living room, until she flopped onto the couch and he knew she was comfortable. He went into the kitchen and leaned against the sink, absently buttoning his shirt as he recalled the sensation of her fingers against his skin. What the hell was going on with her? She had never shown any interest in him before, not like that. He set a pot of coffee brewing and fixed Eames a sandwich, retrieving his own uneaten sandwich from the refrigerator. He brought the sandwiches into the living room and set them on the coffee table as he sat beside her. "Uh, it's ham," he offered.

She looked at him oddly, as though something was different but she couldn't quite put her finger it. The confusion faded and she reached out. "You buttoned your shirt," she said, her tone scolding.

Her fingers played with his buttons again. "Eames..." he protested.

She looked at him, face open and expectant. Her fingers brushed his skin and she leaned forward, this time brushing her lips over his. _She's drunk,_ he reminded himself, struggling to find no enjoyment in the tentative kiss. He pulled back. "Uh, coffee...coffee's r-ready..."

"Don't want coffee," she murmured, leaning back in for another kiss, this one less tentative. She continued to undo his buttons. "Want _you_," she added as she pushed his shirt open.

Stunned, he failed to react when she moved closer, caressing his bare chest with one hand while burying the fingers of the other in his hair. He tried to pull back, but she came with him, trapping him against the back of the couch. She kissed him hard, the tip of her tongue teasing his lips. _Drunk_, his mind screamed frantically. _She's drunk. Do not let her do this!_

With an effort of will he didn't think he had, he managed to turn and slide away from her. "I...uh, s-stay here..."

He rose from the couch and walked down the hall to his bedroom. His hands were shaking when he held them out in front of him. His entire body was on fire as he paced the room, desperately trying to calm himself down. His mind was spinning. Eames had never shown this kind of interest in him before. Why now? Of course, he had never been around her when she was this drunk before. Was this a release of her inhibitions, a real indicator of her true feelings? If so, what the hell was he supposed to do with it? She was not in any condition to be reasoned with and if he listened to his body and let her continue, he would feel like hell tomorrow, and his guilt would never let him rest. His dreams, in particular, would feed that guilt. It was only in his dreams that he was able to give in to his desires, and he felt enough guilt over that. If he were to compound it by taking advantage of her in this situation...he wasn't sure he would be able to face her again.

Yet, his body was screaming at him to give in to his long-suppressed desire. Fortunately, his mind was stronger than his lust, at least for the moment. He still had a firm grip on his sense. He pulled off his shirt and walked to the dresser, hesitating for a moment as he gripped the drawer handle. A sweatshirt might be more practical for this situation. It was far too warm for the season, but it would offer a little more protection from his touchy-feely partner. He was being ridiculous. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a black t-shirt with NYPD across the chest and yanked it on. Then he sat on the bed, debating changing into a pair of jeans. Hell, he'd be going to bed—alone—shortly...once Eames passed out, which he prayed would be soon.

He kicked off his shoes and drew in a deep breath. _Please...be asleep_, he silently begged as he opened the door and walked down the hall toward the living room. He stopped just inside the living room. The television was on, tuned to some cooking show on the Food Network. She turned her head toward him when she heard him cough. Pointing at the television, she said, "They're makin' brownies. Doesn't that sound good?"

_How can you not be asleep,_ he wondered. He did a mental inventory of his cupboards, thinking he remembered seeing a box of brownie mix in the pantry. He could fix her the brownies she seemed to want, or he could sit on the couch with her... "Do you want brownies? I can fix a batch for you."

Her face was still bright with a happiness he never saw on the job, never saw directed toward him, and he was still convinced she would grace anyone with that radiant smile in her condition. "Can you?" she asked, delighted.

"Sure."

Relieved that he didn't have to go near her yet and he could give her more time to crash, he returned to the kitchen. He was mixing eggs into the brownie mix when he heard a noise behind him. Setting the bowl on the counter, he turned, and there she was, watching him. "Is something wrong?"

She shook her head. "You said you had beer."

"Don't you think you've had enough to drink tonight?"

"Don't you think I can decide that for myself?"

He had no desire to get into an argument with her, even if she wouldn't remember it. Surrendering, he waved a hand at the refrigerator as he turned back to the bowl on the counter. "Help yourself," he said, not trying to hide his annoyance.

He heard her move as he picked up the fork to continue stirring, but he didn't hear the refrigerator open. When her hand came to rest flat against his back, he tensed and almost dropped the bowl. It clattered against the counter and the fork flipped out of it onto the counter top. Her hand moved in slow circles over the fabric of his t-shirt. Closing his eyes, he tried to screw up the determination he needed to stop her, but he couldn't find it. Her other hand slipped around his side and came to rest on his stomach. Applying pressure, she coaxed him to turn to face her. He looked down into a face filled with emotion. Her eyes were more clear and she was not weaving. _Three hours,_ he calculated. Three hours since her last drink. She had sobered some, and here she was again, in front of him with her hands on his chest and desire in her eyes. _I can't. I can't let her do this. She will never forgive me._

Gently, he grasped her wrists. "Sit down on the couch. Let me finish in here."

She studied his face for a moment before she pulled her hand from his grasp and reached up to touch his cheek. His eyes half closed and he leaned into her hand before he could stop himself. He let out his breath slowly as her hand slid along his cheek and into his hair. Then she was guiding his head closer to hers and pressing her lips against his for a soft, tender kiss. She moved half a step closer, slowly deepening the kiss. He groaned and placed his hand on her hip, drawing her closer still as her lips worked over his. He let her tongue explore his mouth, then took his own turn. When her lips closed around his tongue and she gently sucked, he groaned again, seeking a deeper taste that was sweet and bitter all at the same time.

Somewhere in his head, his common sense was screaming at him to take it no further, and after a few moments of allowing himself to get lost in her kiss, he listened to it and withdrew. Gently, he ran his thumb across her lips. "P-Please...go in on the couch. I...I'll be there in a few minutes."

She touched his cheek again. _Please, don't_, he thought frantically. His resolve was wavering and that frightened him. He didn't want to take this anywhere, for fear of her reaction when she sobered. Slowly, she withdrew her hand and turned away from him. He watched her walk away, still unsteady, and he knew he'd done the right thing. He stood where he was for a few minutes longer, still recovering from her kiss. When he picked up the bowl again and retrieved the fork from the counter, he was surprised to find his hands shaking again. _Damn_.

After putting the pan in the oven, he set the timer and leaned against the counter near the stove. Running a hand over his face, he hesitated to return to the living room. He knew he was in over his head, but he couldn't think of any way to get out of it. All he could do was hope she'd pass out soon. Obviously, avoiding her wasn't working. If she would just go to sleep, then tomorrow she would be hungover, but sober, and he would still have his dignity. The last thing he wanted to do was betray her by taking advantage of her in her current condition. He felt he was better than that. But damn, she was persistent, and the true state of his heart was not helping matters at all. To pursue her in his dreams was one thing. To surrender to her now, under the current circumstance, would be unforgivable. _Please,_ he begged her in his mind. _Just go to sleep. Save us both a great deal of grief_.

Before he knew it, the timer buzzed. Had he really spent the entire time lost in his head, contemplating the situation he now found himself in? Removing the pan, he set it down to cool and turned off the oven. He let out a slow breath and went into the living room.

To his great relief, he found her finally asleep. He stood there for a long moment, just watching her and recalling the bright, happy smile she'd given him when he showed up at the bar. He wished she really felt that way about him, but he was certain she was simply reacting to a familiar face. Her white knight? Like hell. He wasn't anyone's white knight, least of all hers. Eames was the last person who needed someone to watch out for her. She could definitely take care of herself.

He always tried to watch out for her, like a good partner, and he was always relieved when he realized that she had his back, too. Wasn't that how good partners operated? They were supposed to watch out for each other. And that's what he was: her partner. It's all he could ever be. He touched his lips, recalling her kiss and how much he really wanted to just let go and enjoy it. What he wouldn't give for her to really feel that way toward him. To kiss her, to touch her, to love her... He leaned over and brushed her hair back out of her face. _Alex...No, not Alex. Eames. Partner.  
_

He went to the hall closet and took down a pillow and blanket. He gently tucked the pillow beneath her head and slipped off her shoes. Then he covered her with the blanket and tenderly ran his finger down the side of her face. He let out his breath on a deep sigh and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Good night, partner," he whispered.

He turned off the television on his way back to the kitchen, where he draped a kitchen towel over her brownies and cleaned up. He still felt unsettled and tense, and he knew, once again, he would never get to sleep without help. Swearing to himself, he grabbed a bottle of scotch from its place in the cabinet above the refrigerator. His days were long, but his nights were longer still, and he did what he had to do to get through them. Taking a glass from the drain, he retreated to his room, closing the door behind him.


	2. When Trouble Comes to Visit

Eames rolled slowly into the back of the couch and groaned. Her head was pounding mercilessly, her stomach was uncertain at best and her mouth was full of cotton. She forced her eyes open and looked around, not recognizing her surroundings. _Oh, God. What the hell did I do?_

With extreme care, she managed to ease herself into a sitting position. She looked around, finally realizing where she was. Bobby's apartment. How on earth did she end up there? She wasn't with Bobby last night. Struggling to her feet, she made her way to the bathroom.

Stepping back into the hallway, she looked at his bedroom door. He had to know what happened. She knocked on the door and slowly eased it open. The drapes were drawn, blocking out the daylight and keeping the room dark. She heard soft snoring coming from the direction of the bed. Standing in the doorway, she gave her eyes time to adjust to the dim light before she walked to the bedside.

He was lying on his stomach, shirtless, with both arms tucked beneath his pillow. She picked up a half-empty scotch bottle from the floor and set it on the nightstand beside an almost empty glass. She watched him sleep for a few minutes, eying the strong muscles of his back. _Dear God, give me strength._

When she was certain he wasn't going to waken, she reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead. Unable to resist, she continued to gently run her fingers through his soft curls, and her heart melted.

She withdrew her hand, leaving the room on silent feet. Back in the living room, she folded the blanket and left it on top of the pillow. Spotting her wallet on the counter, she wondered how it got there as she picked it up and slipped it into her jacket pocket. She thought about leaving him a note, but decided against it. Stepping into her shoes, she left the apartment.

* * *

Eames sat alone in her living room, staring at the phone. She had been caught off guard by the call she'd received just before leaving work the night before, and she knew she wasn't able to fully hide her emotions, not from her partner, anyway. She knew Goren sensed she was upset, but she didn't want to discuss it, so she took off before he could start questioning her. If she let him start interrogating, he would get to her. He always did. He would tip his head to the side and give her that look, the one that made his face open and soft. He would touch her arm, and his eyes would take on that pleading look. _Tell me what's wrong_, his entire demeanor would broadcast. And she would cave. She always did.

She stared at the phone for a long time before she came to the conclusion that the calls she needed to make were not going to make themselves. Picking up the receiver, she dialed her sister's number.

* * *

Slowly, Goren rolled over onto his back. He scrubbed a hand over his face, surprised it was still so dark, and looked toward the window. Oh, yeah...he'd pulled the drapes closed before settling in with a book and a bottle of scotch. The scotch bottle, still half full, sat on the nightstand. The book...he looked around...there it was...on the other side of the bed. Picking it up, he opened it to where he'd left off the other night and scanned forward until the sentences were no longer familiar. Not bad. He'd finished most of the chapter before the whiskey blurred his mind and his memory. He looked at the clock. 4:38. Almost dinnertime. He'd slept away most of the day. Had he been that tired, or that drunk? He wasn't sure. Most likely, it was a combination of the two.

Rising, he showered, which made him feel marginally better. In the living room, he was not surprised to find Eames gone, the only evidence of her presence the pillow and neatly folded blanket on the couch. He put them away. He hadn't expected her to hang around, but he imagined she would have questions for him about what had gone on the night before. He pondered what to tell her as he went into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. She hadn't done anything wrong; she had nothing to regret. He'd made sure of that. It hadn't been easy, but it had been necessary. If he'd let her have her way, in that condition, he would never have forgiven himself. But he was confused. Where had that desire in her eyes come from?

He was halfway through the coffee pot and most of the way through a fairly decent meal of chicken enchiladas, rice and beans when someone knocked on the door. He switched off the television and went to the door. Pulling it open, he was surprised to find his partner there, looking no worse for the wear. She gave him a sheepish smile. "Hi."

It was odd to see her wearing that kind of expression. Usually, he was the one who was apologetic and embarrassed. He gave her a reassuring smile. "Hi. Come on in."

"Are you sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

She looked at her fingernails. "I, um, I don't remember...how I got here last night."

"I didn't figure you would." He motioned for her to come in, reinforcing his invitation. "Come on."

She entered the apartment and followed him to the living room. "Oh," she said. "I'm interrupting your dinner."

"Forget it. I was done, anyway. Sit down."

"Bobby...I just...I came by to apologize."

He picked up his plate and the empty beer bottle from the coffee table as she sat on the couch. "For what?" he asked, sincere.

She watched him carry the dishes into the kitchen, listening to the clatter of the plate in the sink and the clink of the bottle in the recycling container before she answered, "For anything I need to apologize for."

"Do you want something to drink?"

She paused. Was he avoiding the subject? "Uh, do you still have ginger ale?"

He came out of the kitchen a few moments later with a can of ginger ale and a small plate, which he handed to her. The plate contained a brownie, frosted with chocolate icing. He gave her a soft smile which caught her off guard. "I found some icing."

She looked confused. "Did I ask for icing?"

"You asked for brownies."

"I did?"

He nodded. "And beer. You settled for the brownies, but you fell asleep before they were done."

She looked at the plate and then back at him as he sat in the recliner near the larger of his bookcases. He'd made her brownies, just because she asked? "Bobby, be honest with me. What else did I do?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, Eames. You weren't really in a condition to do much of anything."

"Seriously? I didn't totally embarrass myself?"

He smiled at her again. "No. You didn't."

She seemed to relax. "Did I do anything to embarrass you?"

"No. You were flirting with a married asshole when I came by to get you."

She gave a nod and a smirk. "My specialty."

"It didn't take much for me to convince him to leave you alone, and then I brought you here."

"Uh, why here?"

"Because you didn't want to go home and you were willing to come here. I didn't mind."

She sat back and took a bite of the brownie. "You're sure I didn't do anything embarrassing?"

"Positive."

He watched her eat the brownie. No, she hadn't done anything embarrassing. Confusing, yes. But not embarrassing. She obviously felt bad about the entire situation, and he wasn't going to contribute to that. But he did want to know what had precipitated it. "Eames, what happened?"

She knew that was coming and she sighed as she finished off the last bite. "It's a family thing," she said, hoping he would leave it at that but knowing he wouldn't. He stayed where he was, silent, watching her, and she knew she owed him more of an explanation than that. With a heavy sigh, she set the empty plate on the coffee table, took a drink of soda and said, "I got a call from my sister. She was really upset, and I met her for drinks to talk to her. She found out Jason...is sleeping with one of the girls he works with, and he got her pregnant."

He didn't react to that, letting it sink in and roll around in his head. He knew that Jason was a good father, but news of his infidelity brought back memories of his own father. As young as he'd been, he knew what was going on when the old man would stumble home, smelling of gin and perfume. He had never forgiven him for that. He didn't know what to tell Eames, so he said nothing. Silently, he rose and took her plate into the kitchen.

She didn't know how to read his reaction. She wasn't sure if he was angry or upset or what he was, so she followed him into the kitchen. He was leaning against the sink, arms folded over his chest, staring into the distance at some point on the wall. But his mind was someplace she could not follow.

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched his arm. He looked at her, but didn't see her immediately. Slowly his eyes cleared and he shook his head. "She deserves better," he commented, then said no more.

"Is that all you have to say?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment. "That's all I'd better say," he answered.

She continued to study him. "Don't cop out on me. I'd like your opinion."

Slowly, he shook his head. "It's not my place to have an opinion about this," he said carefully. "When I can get my own life in order, maybe then I can comment about someone else's decisions."

She was surprised by his reply and even more surprised when he left the room. She wasn't about to let him get away with that, so she followed him again. He was standing by the window in the living room, looking out onto the street below as darkness descended on the city. She crossed the room slowly and tentatively reached out, resting her hand once again on his arm. She watched his jaw tense, but there was no other reaction from him. Her fingers gently stroked his arm and she softly said, "Talk to me."

He continued looking out the window, then he dropped his chin to his chest and searched for the words he needed to describe what he was feeling. He let out a heavy breath. He felt angry and bitter, and he could not keep that from his tone. "All my life," he said quietly. "I have been looking for a woman who would accept me for who I am, without judgment, without conditions. Here's a guy who has the world by the balls, and he has to keep squeezing. He has everything, and he's still not content; he still wants more." His voice became softer, sadder. "I don't understand that."

In that moment, all she wanted was to be closer to him. With more confidence, she stilled the movement of her hand on his arm and gripped it firmly; she moved a half step closer. He turned his head to look at her, surprised. She was watching him, her own mixture of sorrow and regret for her sister's situation on her face. "I don't understand, either," she replied. "And I've been conducting my own search in life, for a decent guy. I have my doubts about ever finding another one."

With a brief nod, he looked back down at the street. She expected him to withdraw his arm, but he didn't. She could, however, feel the tension coursing through him. Another half step and she was directly beside him, almost touching him. Leaning in a little, she rested her head against his arm and looked out the window, not paying attention to anything outside the apartment.

He was already tense. When she rested her head against his arm, his body tensed even more, and he was afraid he was going to pull a muscle before it was over. He could not even take a guess at what she was doing. Turning his head to look at her again, he softly spoke her name. "Eames?"

Her head moved as though she was underwater, very slowly and deliberately. When she finally made eye contact, the air rushed from his lungs as if he'd taken a solid blow to the gut. There in her eyes, he saw the same desire that had been there the night before, only now...now she was sober. Now she knew what she was doing, what she was feeling. She was in control and directing the course of her emotions. Or at least, she wasn't hiding them.

He turned toward her, but took a step backward. She advanced half a step and moved her hand from his arm to his torso. Her warm hand stroked small, firm circles over his shirt. His heart began to race, kicked into overdrive by a mixture of anxiety and anticipation.

The room suddenly got very warm as he tried to withdraw, backing away slowly until he made contact with the wall. She stayed with him, keeping eye contact, until he stopped. He had nowhere else to go. Words failed him and he was unable to look away from her eyes. When had they gotten so dark?

He raised his hand and brought it to rest against the side of her face. Insight flashed like a bolt of lightning in his brain. A beautiful woman who loved him unconditionally, who accepted him for who he was, in spite of everything, something not even his mother had ever been able to do. There was no need for him to look any further, and yet...the object of his search was off limits to him. That was the way life worked, at least for him. The one thing he wanted most from life, and she was forbidden...or was she?

Eames watched the play of emotions drift across his face, saw the shadows in the depths of his eyes. Confusion faded slowly, replaced by realization before finally settling on dark desire that easily matched her own. She wondered if he even knew it was there as she pondered the man who stood before her. A good man...a decent man who loved her in his own messed up way, and it was enough, because he showed her a different face than the one he turned to the rest of the world. She knew a kind and gentle man, a loving soul with a tender heart, despite the rough life he had lived. He would never manipulate her or attempt to score. He was trying to hide, but it wasn't working. Part of him wanted to withdraw. She felt that in the tension of his muscles—they were rigid and unyielding, reflecting his stoic facade—but she was not going to let him.

She slid her hand along his chest, up over his shoulder, along his neck and into his hair. As she began applying pressure to guide his face toward hers, he moved his head on his own. Gently, his lips brushed over hers in a tender, almost chaste kiss. It didn't last long.

Watching her face, he arched his eyebrows just a little bit. The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly in the hint of a smile. Accepting that as permission, he leaned in again, kissing her more fully on the mouth. She leaned into him, and he groaned involuntarily. His tongue traced her mouth and he took full advantage when she parted her lips, sliding his tongue forward, exploring. He gripped her waist, shocked, when she tangled her tongue around his.

As her tongue danced with his, his hands moved from her hips, drifting up her rib cage until his thumbs rested against her breasts. He skimmed them over the light fabric of her shirt and she gasped, grazing his tongue with her teeth. His body shuddered and his groin tightened even more as the fire in his chest consumed him. She buried both hands in his hair and sucked on his tongue, which almost did him in. Where the hell had this come from?

Gradually, with reluctance, he withdrew from her. With even greater reluctance, she let him go. He looked into her eyes and moistened his lips as he struggled to get himself under control. He could not let this get out of hand. She respected him enough to give him his space, though it was obvious she did not want to back off.

When she finally looked away, he leaned over, keeping her eyes focused on him and destroying his chance to fully withdraw. "What are we doing?"

"I thought that was obvious."

"Eames, is this really a path we want to go down? Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Since when are you the voice of reason?"''

He let out a heavy breath. "Since I realized you are the best thing that ever happened to me. I can't risk screwing that up, too."

She moved closer to him again. "So we don't let that happen. Work is work, and play is play. The two can never cross paths. We're not teenagers, Bobby. We can manage our lives."

He arched his eyebrows and laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "Have you looked at my life lately, Eames?"

Her face was close to his again. "Only you have the power to make it better or to make it worse."

He studied her face again, from her eyes, burning with a fire he had never seen in her before, to her mouth, which silently pleaded with him for another kiss. His eyes roamed, looking down at firm breasts that seemed eager for more fondling as they rose and fell with each breath she took. When she reached out and raked her fingernails down his chest, accompanied by the simple word _please_, spoken in a husky, almost desperate tone, he caved completely. He had no will to resist this woman, and he didn't even try any more.


	3. Overload

_Please._

One word shot down all his defenses. He grasped her hand and leaned down to kiss her. Still, at the back of his mind, reason battled desire. "Eames..." he whispered, giving her one last chance to back out.

She placed her fingers against his lips. "Shhh." She touched his temple lightly--"Don't think,"--then laid her palm against his chest--"Just _feel_."

Her fingernails scraped down his t-shirt and she tugged to pull it from his pants. She slid her hands under his shirt, scraping her nails over bare skin, and his knees wobbled. He fell back against the wall, overwhelmed by the sensations her fingers sent screaming through his body. Struggling through the fog of desire that muffled his mind, he reached for her, opening his eyes to fumble with the buttons on her shirt. One by one, they slipped free and her shirt fell open. He pushed it off her shoulders and it fluttered to the ground, forgotten. With one fingertip, he caressed the soft skin above her bra. His pants grew even tighter when she moaned and he leaned in to kiss her again.

As his tongue probed her mouth, his knees stabilized. Her fingers stroked his back and his body ached for her. She brought her hands along his waist in a tender, teasing caress, just above his belt. They came together at his buckle as he removed her bra with hands that trembled. Desire finally beat out reason, and he couldn't get her clothes off fast enough.

Clothes gone, impatient and desperate, he lowered her to the floor, kissing and caressing. Her hands were everywhere, urging him on and fanning a fire that threatened to consume him.

His head was spinning as he pushed into her, gasping at the tight fit. Withdraw, thrust...withdraw, thrust...each time going a little deeper. Twice he had to stop to avoid finishing too soon. With each thrust, she raised her hips to meet him, her soft groans spurring him on.

She continued to meet him thrust for thrust, urging him on. Her hands caressed his sides, his back, his hips, sending his senses into overload. He moved faster, and so did she. Her climax sent him spiraling into his own and the world imploded on him.

When he came back, he was lying on the floor beside her, holding her against him, face buried in her hair. She was stroking his side, placing random kisses on his face, his chin, his chest. He studied her from under half-closed lids. Placing a tender kiss on his lips, she whispered, "Let's go to bed."

He followed her to the bedroom and slid under the covers beside her. "This is what you want?" he whispered against her skin.

She nodded, playing with the hair on his chest. "What about you?" she asked.

He sensed reluctance in her tone, as though she were afraid of his answer. A smile drifted onto his face. "I want you," he replied, seeking her mouth for a deep kiss.

She pressed against him, thrusting, inviting, and he accepted the invitation again. Afterwards, he watched her sleeping face, content. He drifted off soon after and, for the first time in a long time, he slept peacefully.

_finis._


End file.
